Junked hypodermics made it hard to walk
along the Tiber by the deserted, grand
sandstone embankment of the temple block.

I think you would understand
my craft of writing, how it makes of me
your king and creature in this no-man’s-land
of the moment;

He gets back in the car, resting a plastic tray of nachos on his jeans. I smell the salt, the corn, the nacho cheese, its under-smell of plastic, the way his hair smells when he hasn’t washed it in a few days, gasoline.

                                              twig stick A line of trees hard   branches above the roofs 

                 the boats
        to illustrate
the drift of light, shifting

Homer playing
         violin
as he could have,

That’s love for you, a terror so white 
it cleaves the bones.

We’ve shaved the skull to a caramel swell.
Note the roseate, cardinal designs

The derring-do of the Soviet troops.

The trout-boned woman upstairs
Wakes my wife and baby daughter